1) Queso dip, 5 layer bean dip and approximately a half pound of corn chips. As an appetizer.

2) A smoothie made from greek yogurt, bananas, mango, pineapple and 3 different kinds of weird sprouts that made the smoothie crunchy. All in a misguided attempt to counter-balance the bagel with cream cheese that I ate 10 minutes prior.

3) Almost an entire box of dry Fiber One Chocolate cereal. I will spare you the details but, please don’t ever do this!!!

4) A cupcake. Ok… three!!

5) An entire jar of bread and butter pickles… which I don’t even really like.

5 Things I Have Cried About Recently

1) That phone (or something) commercial where we see the little boy in all stages of his life, ending with him giving his mom a tour of his dorm room. “It all goes so fast!! Sniffle, sniffle”

2) Every single time I feel that my husband just “doesn’t understand me.” (ie. at least twice a week)

3) A video of my daughter taking some of her first steps in our front yard. She is smiling proudly as she drunkenly moves towards me on her wobbly little legs. Her chubby fingers are laced in mine as… Oh crap… here we go again!

4) The day I really wanted Mexican Food but Pinches Tacos was closed. Ok, I didn’t actually cry, but I did get pretty teary-eyed.

5) Any movie, tv show, commercial, webisode, viral video, or infomercial featuring a baby, toddler, small child, animal dressed to look like a small child, person with small features, midget or gymnast.

Two and a half years ago, while pregnant with my daughter, I started a journal to my unborn child. I had a lot of questions, fears and emotions (imagine that: an emotional pregnant woman!) Mostly I just felt like I had a lot to say to this little baby growing inside me, but I felt like a complete a-hole actually walking around talking to her. I have always had a much easier time writing rather than talking, especially when it comes to any subject that registers on an emotional scale of more than .0005. I can barely stutter my way through a difficult face-to-face conversation, but I can bare my soul on paper. That is part of the reason I started this blog in the first place: I had a lot to say, but was too chicken shit to actually SAY any of it.

So for these reasons, I started a journal to my unborn child. I have kept up with it since her birth, although not as often as I would like as actually having a child takes up most of my time. However, I hope to continue writing in it and saying all the things that I can never actually say to her until I feel that the time is right to give the journal to her.

A few days ago was my daughter Lyla’s second birthday. And rather than writing a separate blog post about the immeasurable ways that she has changed my life in the two years since she was born, instead I am going to share with you the entry that I made into my daughter’s journal.

Dear Lyla,

A little over two years ago, I was anxiously awaiting your arrival. I was full of questions and fears, and there was so much that I did not know. Now, you are two years old, and I am full of new questions and fears. I am still learning every day, and thank goodness you are a kind and patient teacher. One thing that I have learned in the last two years is how little I knew until the day you came into my life.

I knew that I would love you, but I didn’t know what this kind of love meant. I had no idea that this depth of love was even possible until you showed me how.

I didn’t know how addicting your smell would be.

I knew that you would change my life, but I didn’t know how much you would change me. You have made me stronger than I ever imagined, more patient than I ever thought possible, and more compassionate than I ever dreamed I could be. You have brought out the best in me, and shown me parts of myself that I didn’t even know existed.

I knew that you would make me a better mother, but I didn’t know that you would make me a better daughter, wife, sister and friend. I didn’t know you would make me a better person.

I didn’t know what amazing conversations we would have, even at the age of two.

I knew you would be my daughter, but I didn’t know you would be my confidant, my partner in crime, my fashion critic, my favorite companion and my best friend.

I knew that I would have much to teach you, but I didn’t know how much you would teach me. Every. Single. Day.

I didn’t know such big farts could come out of such a little person.

I didn’t know that once I became a mom, I could never unbecome one, even if I wanted to just for an hour or two. I didn’t know that even when you are not there, you are always in my mind and my heart.

I didn’t know how hard I could laugh.

I didn’t know how much I would worry. Every second. Every minute. Every day. I also didn’t know how this could possibly be a bittersweet thing. I worry so much because I love you so fiercely. And even though worrying can be exhausting, that kind of love feels good. So I embrace the worrying. I do know that you don’t understand what this means, but I hope that you have your own child someday and then you will know.

Lyla, there is so much that I didn’t know then and that I still don’t know now. I have made many mistakes over the past two years, and I am sure that I will make so many more before you ever read this. The one thing I do know is that my love for you somehow grows every day. I know that you inspire me, amaze me, and make me happier than I ever thought I could be. I know I must be doing ok at this mom thing, because you are the most incredible little person that I have ever met. Happy birthday my beautiful daughter. I love you more than you will ever know.

I never cared too much about cars. My parents certainly are not car people. They buy a new car only once the old car has literally begged to be put out of its misery at 200k+ miles. My first car was an old Honda Civic hatchback that my mom drove in the early 80’s. It was cream-colored with upholstery that was shredded and stained from years of driving around toddlers. I covered the seats with furry seat-covers, plastered clever bumper stickers to the back and drove it to high school with pride. I loved it because it was my car. Mine.

I drove that car into the ground, as 16-year-olds are prone to do, and I was lucky enough that my parents provided me with the second of the used family cars to take to college: a gold Chevy station wagon. It had been in several accidents, so it wore a black car bra (remember those?!) to conceal the damage and it broke down occasionally (ok, all the time), but it was big enough to fit all of my friends, plus a keg or two of beer in the back.

From the station wagon, I upgraded to a gently used Geo Prizm, which I was thrilled to have, mostly because it was red. Then a few years later, I moved from Colorado to California to seek my fortune in a white 1993 Oldsmobile that I bought the day that I left town because it had a few key characteristics besides its stunning good looks: it was over 10 years old but only had 20,000 miles and cost just $4,000. This was probably because it was previously owned by a little old lady, who drove it only to the beauty parlor to get her hair “done” once a week, until the day that she mixed up the gas pedal with the brake and rolled through a farmer’s market going 60 mph, where luckily no one was hurt but her licence was wisely taken away and the car sat in her garage until one of her asshole children needed money and sold it. This is all hypothetical by the way, but hopefully you get the picture that the car was not really my dream car. I doubt it was even the hypothetical old lady’s dream car.

But as much as can laugh about my string of “hoopties”, as my friends called all of them, none of these cars ever bothered me much – except when they were broken down. However, after a few years of cringing ever-so-slightly when I had to valet the Oldsmobile next to the Ferraris and Maseratis that populate the LA freeways the same way that Civics and Subarus populate the Denver ones, I finally decided to upgrade my car. I had a steady job then. A job that actually looked like a promising career. I celebrated this by buying the first car that I had ever picked out myself: a used BMW 3 Series sedan. It was 5 years old but looked brand new, and black on black. I had searched for months, done endless research and test-driven tons of cars before I finally settled on this beauty. I was proud to drive it, not because it was a shiny BMW, but because it was mine. It was my choice, based on nothing but desire (and the price being under $20,000).

I proudly drove that car for five years. Even after the birth of my daughter, I refused to give it up. I didn’t care that her stroller took up the entire trunk, so that when I went grocery shopping I had to pack the bags around my daughter in the backseat. I didn’t care that my back was sore from constantly ducking so far down to get her into her car seat, or that my once-clean black leather seats were now covered with a fine Cheerio dust. I didn’t care because, on those rare occasions that I was driving in my car alone, I could still crank up my tunes, roll down the windows and zip between cars with my hair whipping out the window. Ok, who I am kidding? I could sit in LA bumper-to-bumper traffic with the windows rolled up so no crackheads could harass me, and feel pretty damn cool while I did it. I could feel, just for a moment, like I was a young, single girl without a care in the world.

But recently we started thinking about Baby #2, and it became increasingly apparent that my cute little car would have to be replaced. Replaced with what? A Mommy-Mobile, of course. What else?

For someone who doesn’t care much about cars, this was much harder than I thought it would be. After endless research into safety-tests, cost comparisons, online reviews from other Mommy-Mobile drivers, and test drives we settled on the Mazda CX-9. It is actually a really great car. It seats 7. It has a third row that easily folds down to create ample trunk space for strollers and groceries and stray homeless people. It sits up high, so getting my daughter in and out is so much easier now. It links up to my phone through bluetooth, so I can easily play “Wheels On The Bus” through Pandora when my daughter gets cranky. It is shiny and new – actually the first new car that I have ever had. It is everything any mom could dream of. And all of these reasons explain why it drives my husband batshit crazy that I don’t really like it.

I know, I know. Boohoo. Poor me with my shiny, beautiful, new car. Cue the tiny violins. The thing is that it doesn’t really matter what the car it. It’s not really about the car at all, it is what it represents to me. My husband doesn’t get it. He drives the family car on the weekends, and then hops into his sporty convertible to head to work with the top down every day. He gets to pretend for a minute that he could drop everything and cruise across the border into Mexico with his friends at a moment’s notice. He gets to blast his music and drive fast and pretend that he is young and wild and free… even if it is only for 15 minutes on his way to work.

For me there is no pretending. Even if my daughter is not in the car, she is still there. She is in the giant car seat in my rear view mirror, the crushed Cheerios on the floor, the stroller in the back, the toys scattered on the passenger seat, and the Goldfish crackers stashed in my console. Even when I drive by myself, I jam out to Dora the Explorer radio because I usually can’t figure out how to change the station on my fancy bluetooth radio. There is just no mistaking a Mommy-Mobile when you see one, and there is no pretending that you are anything other than a Mommy when you drive one. It doesn’t matter how nice the car is. It doesn’t matter that I picked out the colors and trim. It is not my car. It is a car borrowed from my parents. It is a car we rented on vacation. It is a car that I mixed up at the grocery store and took from some other mommy, who now has my cute little car. It is not mine. I didn’t pick it out. Life did.

Ok, so now my tale of woe is done. For those of you who want to punch me in the boob for complaining about such a thing as a nice new car when there are real problems in the world like war, hunger, and personalized license plates – go ahead, I totally deserve it. The truth is that I actually do kind of like my car. I don’t want to like it, but I do. But as much as I like it, it will never be mine. I guess that’s because it is a grown-up car and I still have a bit of growing up to do.

Nobody is perfect. Anyone who has ever read this blog can attest to the fact that I am not even close. However, it seems to be some unspoken mommy code that when in public, one must cling to the appearance of parental perfection. But I am no actress (I can’t even fake an orgasm, just ask my college boyfriend) and all this pretending is just exhausting. So today I am just going to put it all out there and confess a few of my Parenting Sins – heinous crimes so terrible that parents are never supposed to reveal them for fear of being ostracized from playgrounds and Mommy and Me Yoga groups everywhere.

Judgy Judgerson’s out there: Rejoice. You are going to have a field day with this one. But for the rest of you who are a) actual parents b) live in the real world and c) are tired of trying to pretend you are perfect, I hope this comes as a relief to know that you aren’t the only “horrible parent” out there. If these sins send me to Parenting Purgatory, so be it. I’ll be there eating non-organic, sugar laden-junk food and watching reality TV, if any other parents care to join.

So without further ado, here are 7 of my Deadly Parenting Sins. Judge away!

1) I sometimes let Dora the Explorer babysit my daughter while I work, make dinner or just take a little break from the rigors of hostage-style negotiations with a toddler.

2) You know how kids throw food on the floor and when you are in public you tell them that it’s yucky and then make a big show of throwing it away? When I am in the privacy of my own home, I sometimes dust it off and give it back. Especially if it is a valuable (as in: last) snack. 5 second rule, right?

3) I lose my patience all the time. I sometimes have to leave the room so I don’t explode. Sometimes I explode anyway. I am working on it.

4) I laugh when my daughter repeats curse words or says other inappropriate phrases. My daughter used to say fuck instead of fork and I would think of any excuse to get her to say fork. “Lyla, what do you use to eat your pasta? A what? What was that?” Hey, it’s funny. Sue me.

5) Some days I count the minutes until nap time or bed time. I love spending time with my daughter, but I also like eating, showering and peeing – none of which I can do while she is awake. Without question, my two favorite times of the day are when she wakes up and when she goes to sleep.

6) I can get a bit lazy with meals. Here’s the deal: I buy organic everything. I cram fruit and vegetables down her throat. I make sure that she gets all her food groups every day. But most days, by the time we get to dinner, I am tired. I also know that I have to cook another dinner for my husband and I. So my daughter eats a variation of the following things most nights: pasta with tomato sauce and some kind of vegetables, pasta with cheese sauce and some kind of vegetable or baked chicken nuggets with sweet potato fries. Throw in the occasional quesadilla, sandwich or leftovers from Mommy and Daddy’s dinner and that pretty sums it up. This actually sounds like a delicious menu to me. I think she’s pretty damn lucky!

7) When it comes to clothing, sometimes my daughter’s comfort is slightly less important than the adorableness of a particular outfit. Hey, looking good isn’t always easy. Let’s just say that I am preparing her for the high heels and Spanx that will more than likely be in her uncomfortable future. And don’t even get me started on bikini waxes.

So there you go, my 7 Deadly Parenting Sins. Sure, there are more than 7, but these are the just the few that I have already committed today. See you in purgatory. I’ll be the one with the baker’s dozen of Sprinkles cupcakes, a bottle of Cabernet and huge damn smile.

Please feel free to share your Parenting Sins with me. No judgement here. Just a “cheers!” with my wineglass and a knowing smile.

I don’t know what it is, but today has been an unusually great day. My daughter slept in until nearly 9 o’clock and I woke up feeling more rested than I have in years. My husband greeted me in bed with a cup of hot coffee and then told me that he had gotten up early and cleaned both the bathrooms. I had a healthy and delicious Kale smoothie for breakfast. Then I took a long, hot bath where I deep conditioned my hair, shaved 75% of my body and finally finished that book I have been reading for at least 2.5 years.

All my bills are paid, all my work is done, and I have crossed off all the items on my To Do list. Actually I am kind of bored. (ps.this is the first time I have had time to be bored since 2001) Best of all, My daughter hasn’t thrown a single tantum all day!

A couple of months ago my husband and I had a fight. Not simply a disagreement. Not an argument. Not even a simple, clean fight. We had a knockdown, drag-out, say-things-you-will-regret-later kind of fight. It was an experience that rarely happens, and I am going to do my best to make sure that it never happens again.

The details of what we argued about don’t really matter, but here’s the gist: he said something that pissed me off and I totally over-reacted (as usual), got defensive (per normal), and got angry (yep, again normal. Sigh.) Again, the details of what he said that triggered all of this don’t really matter, but what I came to realize throughout that very long night is that: truly, it’s not him, it’s me.

I got so upset because something he said touched a very deep vein of insecurity in me. Nearly everyone I know has their insecurities, and I am no exception. I am insecure about many things: the size of my thighs, the shape of my breasts, the nasally sound of my voice. Insecurity is not a new thing to me. But lately I have added a new insecurity to the list. This insecurity has shaken me to my very core, because that is what I am insecure about – My very core. Not my thighs or my breasts or my belly or my laugh. I am insecure about Me. Mostly because I don’t know who Me is anymore.

Since becoming a mom, I have struggled to define myself outside of that title. I used to be many things – A writer, a producer, a loving wife, a best friend, a dirty-joke-teller, a great secret-keeper, a full-time foodie and wino, a sometime hip-hop dancer. But when my daughter was born, a new me was born too, and now I often feel as though I have been stripped down to a single thing: Lyla’s mommy. Believe me, Lyla’s mommy is really great thing to be, but sometimes I feel as though it is just not enough.

Perhaps it is my fault. Since having a baby, I quit my full-time job and now freelance part-time. I have given up most of my hobbies. I see much less of my friends. But these are all choices that I made, and I am not sure that I would make them any differently. My most rewarding job is my daughter. She is also my favorite hobby and my best friend. And that is beautiful. But yet, I still feel lost sometimes.

I used to be full of stories and jokes and opinions. Now, I often find myself struggling for interesting things to talk about at dinner parties. My clever anecdotes about potty training, and hilarious stories of Mommy and Me shenanigans can only take me so far.

I used to have an exciting job. Something I worked very hard at and was very proud of. Now, when people ask me what I do, I come up with some sort of vague answer about how I kinda stay home with my daughter and sort of work part-time from home. It’s as though I feel like neither job is good or exciting enough to warrant anyone’s curiosity. Instead I steer the conversation towards my husband or a friend or someone whose life is more worthy of examination.

I used to love getting dressed up, carefully planning each outfit the day before. Now, I spend my days in yoga pants and hoodies. I sometimes go for days without putting on make-up or even washing my hair. This is probably because I can often go For days without seeing another adult besides my husband and the cashier at Trader Joe’s.

Time passes. There are wonderful days and boring days and tough days. My daughter grows bigger and sometimes I feel as though I am growing smaller. I get further and further away from the person I used to be, but somehow I don’t get much closer to discovering the person I am now.

Although my fight with my husband was awful, something good came out of it. It forced me to take a hard look at myself and realize that I need to make some changes. I need a Mommy Make-over, and not the kind that requires a nip and tuck, or even a new hair-cut. I realized that I need to take care of my newborn self the way that I took care of my newborn daughter. I need to love and nurture myself, and every once in a while, to put my own needs at the top of the list.

I know that it is February, and now is when people are breaking their New Year’s resolutions, not making them, but I think that any positive change can happen any time you decide to make it happen. So this year my resolution is this: I am going to spend a lot less time thinking about who I used to be or who I should be, and spend a lot more time discovering who I am. Who I really am. Right at this moment. Not the “new and improved, healthier, skinnier, friendlier, better wife, better mother” me. But just me. Right now. What I REALLY enjoy doing. What REALLY makes me happy. Then I am going to spend a lot less time thinking about it, and a lot more time actually doing it. And hopefully once day, when I am old and grey and I have time to think about these things, I will discover that I have always known who I am. And it has nothing to do with any job I held, or clothes that I wore, or hobby I perfected. Perhaps it is some complicated equation that has to do with the people I love, added to the experiences I have had, multiplied by the laughs I have shared. But I haven’t quite figured that out yet. So for now, I’m going to try to think less and live more. Talk to me when I’m 80. By then I should have it all figured out. Maybe.

See, even Santa knows how to enjoy the holidays… maybe a little too much.

Ah the holidays. A time of peace, joy and magic. Of sparkling lights, cheesy music, fattening food and beautifully wrapped gifts. And don’t forget the stress that comes from making, buying and planning all of the above. There are houses to be cleaned and decorated, cards to be bought and sent, cookies to be baked and delivered, events to be planned and attended, traditions to be created and upheld, and gifts to be purchased, wrapped and shipped… all in the name of peace, joy and magic. It’s enough to make a girl long for New Years. Or at least to keep her up all night, ticking off endless lists in her head, while she stresses about stupid things like does she have enough scotch tape.

Yes, there is much to be done during the holidays. But the thing we all forget to do is the most critical thing of all… to stop and enjoy it. What good is a perfectly trimmed tree if you don’t have time to sit in front of it with a glass of wine? What good are those homemade latkes or Christmas cookies if you don’t taste them? What fun is a holiday party if you spend it stressing about making it to the next one? What does it matter if you find the perfect toys for your children if you don’t take the time to play with them?

This year my holiday wish for you all is for you not to have a happy holiday, but instead to ENJOY a happy holiday. I wish for you to enjoy many nights drinking hot chocolate (and by hot chocolate I mean wine) with your loved ones in front of the fireplace… or if you live in LA, in front of your flat screen TV and simulated fire DVD. I wish for you to share a wonderful meal with your best friends and to laugh until the wee hours. To delight in the pure glee on your little-ones’ faces when every gift is unwrapped. To spend hours walking around and enjoying the beauty of the season. To savor each bite of food, every moment with your family and all of the wonderful gifts you are given. To ENJOY a holiday season full of peace, joy and magic rather than stress, greed and guilt.

So this year if my holiday cards don’t arrive until January, or my cookies come from the grocery store, or I don’t attend every holiday party, or my jeans don’t zip up, or my presents arrive in ugly gift bags instead of beautifully wrapped packages or perhaps don’t even arrive at all… don’t blame me. Blame the peace, joy and magic.

I spend most of my days teaching my daughter stuff. Important stuff like words, numbers, colors, how to read, how to poopoo in the potty, and how to say “Cheerio mate!” with a British accent. But as much as I teach her, I swear that she teaches me more. Yesterday’s lesson: How to Make Your Day Kick Ass!

You know those nights when you come home after a long, tiring day and just want to flop down on the couch, shovel carbs into your face hole and stare blankly at the TV? Or perhaps you have been home with your kids for an equally long, tiring day and you just want to flop down on the couch, shovel carbs into your face hole and stare blankly at the TV. But instead of some well-deserved couch time you get to do the Evening Scramble because there is dinner to be made, baths to be given, and finicky husbands – I mean children – to feed. You know those nights? Well, that was where I was last night.

It was a Monday, and a Monday after a vacation, at that. My husband had just gotten home from work, tired and hungry. I was scrambling to clean up the aftermath of the natural disaster that is my daughter’s dinner (can I get some FEMA up in here?) while simultaneously making a fabulous dinner – ok a dinner – for my husband and I. My daughter was running around, begging for attention. So, to distract her for the 2.4 minutes I needed to finish cleaning up, I turned on some music. It was Foster The People Pandora if you must know (I’ve had it up to HERE with Elmo singing! Maybe the next Elmo could have a less annoying voice, huh? And perhaps not be a pedophile. ALLEGEDLY**) Anyway, I cranked up the tunes and got back to the Evening Scramble.

A few minutes later I turned around to check on my daughter, and saw that she was dancing. Beautifully, maniacally, joyfully, hand-clappingly, booty-shakingly dancing with all her might. If you have never seen a one-year-old dance, there is truly nothing better in the world. Usually I don’t make a habit of posting many photos or videos of my daughter, because I feel like she deserves some semblance of privacy. Although, for some reason it doesn’t bother me to share her every word, action and fart with the world, but hey, it’s my blog and I will share if I want to. Anyway, I don’t usually share videos, but this video of her dancing is pure happiness, so I feel like it is my duty to share it with the world. Check it out on my Facebook page (and like my page while you are there!) If you can watch this video and not smile, then you are dead inside. Pack your shit and go try out for The Real Housewives.

So last night my daughter was dancing in her amazing way, and as my husband and I stood watching her, she ran over and grabbed our hands and pulled us to the dance floor (aka living room). Yes, the kitchen was still a mess and the dinner was beginning to burn, but when a kid commands you to shake your ass, your ass gets shaken. So we danced. And then we danced some more. At first, I was trying to teach my daughter some dance moves, but she looked at me like I was crazy and kept doing her thing. So instead I let her teach me. I copied HER moves, and man was it fun! And now, in yet another act of kindness, I will teach you.

Step One: Put on some booty-shaking music. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as gets your booty bouncing.

Step Two: Turn it up!

Step Three: Turn it up more!

Step Four: Turn it down already! Do you want to make your child deaf?! What kind of parent are you anyway?

Step Five: Close your eyes. Start to move your body. No one is watching you. No one cares if you are on-beat, in-time, or cool at all. Freeing right?

Step Six: Now that no one is watching you, just relax and let your body take you where it wants to go. Clap your hands, jump up and down, kick your legs, twirl around until you fall down, laugh until you cry.

We all danced like that for another 20 minutes or so, until it was time to get back to the business of life. You always have to get back to business eventually, that is the way that life works. But when I got back to making my (slightly charred) dinner, I was doing it with a smile on my face and my ass still twitching to the beat. I felt more energized and much happier than if I had flopped down on the couch as I had wanted to. It was a great way to end the day, and I am going to try it as often as possible. And then, when I am done dancing and my heart is doing the samba and my stomach aches from laughter, only then I will flop down on the couch, shovel carbs into my face hole and stare blankly at the TV.

The other day my daughter, Lyla, and I were at Starbucks fueling my caffeine and sugar addictions, when suddenly Lyla starts pointing out the window and saying, “Mama! Mama!” She was so excited, but for the life of me I could not figure out what she was pointing at. She’s only 18 months old, so often our communication is akin to platform flip-flops: confusing at best.

First I tried the “What do you see out there?” tactic. Airplane? – No. Doggie? – No. Homeless person pushing a shopping cart that you think has a baby inside? – No, No, No! So I switched tactics. Perhaps she is wondering where her dad is. Sometimes she gets our names confused. And in her defense, I had just finished working out and was sweaty and more than a little manly looking. So I said, “No honey, Mama is right here. Papi is at work, but we will see him later tonight.” She looked at me like I was an idiot (is it possible to be embarrassed in front of your one-year-old?) and began pointing even more emphatically out the window. “Mama! Mama!”

Lyla was starting to get frustrated, and I was starting to get desperate. So I picked her up and walked to the window saying, “Show me what you are talking about, honey.” But when we got to the window, instead of pointing outside, she began pointing to the Starbucks logo on the window. “Mama!” she said with a smile. For a moment I looked between the logo and my daughter in pure puzzlement. Yes, I do drink enough coffee for her to equate me with the beverage, however, usually it is not from Starbucks. “Mama!” she said again, pointing at the logo then stroking my hair. I had never really looked at the logo before, so I studied it for a minute. Suddenly it hit me, she thinks the logo is a picture of me. So I said, “Oh! This looks like me? This looks like mama?” And she smiled like the sun and said, “Yeah!” so happy that I had finally stopped being a total idiot and understood what she was trying to tell me.

It’s actually not a bad compliment. The Starbucks logo is based on a 16th century Norse woodcut of a mermaid or Siren to go with Seattle’s nautical roots. (I looked this up, I don’t actually know this much useless Starbucks information. Just other kinds of useless information.) Starbucks chick is kind of a babe. This is solid proof that to your children, you are the most beautiful woman in the world. So I was happy. However, I think my daughter will be sorely disappointed that I am not actually Mrs. Starbucks when she is filling out those loan applications for college. Maybe I will just tell her that I drank away our fortune.